Bring Me To Life
by raynperdition
Summary: Sherlock and John. Lots of bad attitudes. Sherlock's in love- he just doesn't know it yet. John's frustrated because Sherlock's destructing everything- including himself, and John's relationships. DARK. Read the warnings before every chapter. Johnlock. Smut, shitty attitudes (ahem, it's Sherlock), and depressing qualities.


A/N: **Warnings: Yo, this is Johnlock. Where John and Sherlock are concerned there are three things: darkness, attitude problems, and fucking. **

**Bring Me To Life is by Evanescence.**

**Enjoy ;)**

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Close your eyes. Think back. Remember it all. The devil is in the details, after all. Devil...there was a painting of a red, horned creature on the icebox. Remember. Think back. Mind Palace.

"He's part of a left-wing liberal, civil-rights, yada yada, group. Very extremist. Not the leader, but the right hand to the head of their section of the group. He was in the country yesterday, not for long, but...he met someone there. Tea time. Older fellow, not part of the group." Sherlock snuck a glance at John, knowing he'd meet calming blue eyes that would keep him from going overboard and just confusing the dim-witted men he was talking to, more. "He was talking. A double-agent, perhaps- although more likely just looking for fifteen minutes of fame. Talk to all the small time newspapers. There, you shall find your man. He's older, strong, approximately six feet tall- judging by the height of the blows to his body- and probably shaken up. He'll have taken a sick day. Ah, and here's his card." He smirked and produced the business card from his pocket- where he had stashed it after plundering the corpse's clothes.

John shook his head, apologized to Lestrade, and then came trotting up beside him as he strode from the crime scene. The murders were getting too easy. People were sloppy, leaving clues behind that gave a clear-cut path straight to their doorsteps. It was dull, boring, unsatisfactory. Never a good thing when you have a mind that cuts through glass like it's butter. He could see everything, answer any question, solve any riddle. But he was demoted to solving crimes like they were word-puzzles.

"...Sherlock?" By the sound of John's voice, he had been talking. Possibly calling his name more than once.

He snapped to attention. "Dinner, shall we?" He smiled and hooked his arm through John's pulling him down the street towards a local diner. They were far from Baker Street, and it wouldn't do to make his blogger wait.

"You weren't listening to a word I said, were you? I have a date tonight, Sherlock." There was an irked tone to his flatmate's voice, one that made Sherlock immediately break off contact and nod curtly.

"Right, sorry. I was...thinking." To say the least. He had completely spaced out- as he was wont to do, on more than the rare occasion- and caught in his mind. "Well, let's get a taxi." He hailed one, trying to ignore the searing sensation of blue eyes on the back of his neck.

"Sherlock..." Ah, that tone he knew all too well. The 'we are going to talk about this if I have to tie you down and force the words out of you through torture.' Shit. "Sherlock, come on." The tone continued as Sherlock kept his back to the ex-military man. Didn't John realize he didn't _want_ to talk?

"Yes?" The defeated sound in his voice that signaled the forthcoming of wicked snideness and unflinching sarcasm- which was really just rudeness and the attempt to get rid of weaker foe- made no effect on John. Fuck. Weaker foe certainly did not apply to his newest colleague and closest friend- although he had no doubt that was an entirely unrequited sentiment.

"Don't be like that." John grumbled, climbing into the taxi and both of them falling into silence. It was inevitable that whatever this conversation was to be about, John didn't want to have it around anyone else.

Sherlock slid down in his seat, fiddling absently with his phone- back and forth, up and down, spin- the movements purely subconscious and unendingly stimulating to his mind. When he was like this- nervous, filled to the brim with adrenaline, and fitted with a brain that simply would not rest- he couldn't stop moving. Fidgeting was a last-resort, usually something he fell to when he couldn't pace and speak aloud to whomever or whatever would listen. He liked to be heard, like to flesh things out to someone who- most likely- wouldn't have any need to talk back. That was why he so adored having John around. He merely listened in awe and held his tongue- unless he wanted to talk about trivial things that Sherlock had absolutely no interest in- usually questioning the more romantic side of some case they were working. But he _needed_ John. Needed him like the air in his lungs and the blood in his veins. Now, he was nearly dependent on the other man, taking him with him on every case and usually taking him on any work-related errands he had to run- unless they were dangerous and god knows, the last thing he wanted was a man with PTSD getting hurt again.

When he came back down to reality, they were at the flat. John was clambering out of the cab in his usual way, and Sherlock followed behind with the aloof air of a man disenchanted with how life was about to turn. He couldn't say he didn't deserve it. There was no reason for him to space out on John- although the other man probably thought he'd just been ignoring him- but that wasn't what was on the man's mind. There was something tense between his shoulders, a heaviness to his gait that reminded Sherlock of the psychosemmatic limp he'd sported when they first met.

"Mrs. Hudson." The men both nodded to her as they bolted upstairs, Sherlock hot on John's heels forever fearing he would fall and truly wound himself- it wouldn't be the first time.

The moment they got through the door, John had whirled on him and was glaring at him with hot, angry eyes. "You can't keep doing this to me! She's a good girl! Every time you meet them, you list off every flaw and vice, piss her off, and end up making the two of us break up! And you know what the last, pissy conversation I have with absolutely every girlfriend I've had since the two of us met, is about? Do you, you ignorant genius?" Something about the question seemed rhetoric, so Sherlock kept his mouth firmly shut. And the thoughts running through his head were of anything but surprise- this had been coming for a while. "You! You bloody bastard!" John kicked a chair out of his way, as if the inanimate object had offended him greatly in some undetectable way.

"John, I-" He started, about to...not apologize, per say, but perhaps explain himself.

No dice.

"Did I fucking say you could talk?" The venom in John's eyes- now that, _that_ was a surprise.

Since the moment they'd met, Sherlock had been dominant. His personality was overpowering, and being dominated held no appeal to him. He didn't like being out-of-control, not holding his own fate in his hands, or steering the next step himself. He was the captain of his fate, and he controlled his life with an iron grip. Suffice to say, he and the law wouldn't have gotten along if Lestrade hadn't needed him so desperately.

Nevertheless, this new side of John caught him off guard, and made a scowl immediately taint his lips. "I didn't ask your permission." Tone? Unfriendly. Aggressive. Pissed. Contemptuous. Haughty. Wicked. Rabid. The list could go on.

John marched up to him, squaring up to him and glaring with dark, angry eyes. "I deserve your silence. I have put up with your shit for _ages_, without a single complaint. I deserve respect, Sherlock. I...I have sacrificed so much to be here, to help, to do whatever I could for you. I haven't asked a single thing in return. Why can't you grant me this? Your silence, to allow my girlfriend into my life without one god-damn brilliant deduction about her personage?" The tension in the room was palpable, and John had Sherlock fairly caged against the door.

There was but one thing he could say, one thing his acerbic, bitter tongue would let him utter. "I never asked you to help me." It fell in the room like a ton of bricks. It cut through the silence like a sharpened, wrathful knife.

And he could see it's effect on John instantaneously. Something in his "friend's" eyes broke. Sherlock felt guilt and regret welling up in his chest with imbearable pressure. "Well. Right." He shook his head and looked away. "I'll be off then. Good night." The tone...oh god, that was a tone of voice that broke his heart.

He moved to let John out the door, and felt something sink like dead weight in his chest. It was going to be the longest night of his life. 12 hours of pure waiting, wondering, uncertainty, doubt, regret. So much regret.

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A/N: **To be continued. Please review. I don't know where this is going, and probably never will. So, yeah. Enjoy my lack of forethought and plot.**

**~xoxox, Rayn**


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